Thursday night phone call

 

You call from

an empty town square

in Tasmania

 

describe the clear night sky

—the ‘secret man’ in a crevice

stealing Wi-Fi

 

All your family pets

have been killed:

hit by cars, you say

 

Your cat

has a human face

and it weirds you out

 

I tell you about the neighbour

inviting me into her home

to accept a printer/scanner

 

At one point you say ‘your house’

then correct yourself and say

‘our house’

 

I laugh:

you feel close

like you’re not 554 km away

but in your room,

through the wall

 

Our goodbye

is preceded by

a period of silence

during which I think

you’ve been disconnected

 

Your voice returns

but you exit suddenly

—time passes

and I resign

to not caring

 

We text until 3 am

 

You want to change your life,

stop drinking:

alcoholism

is in your blood

 

I tell you my dad’s an alcoholic

 

—picture you

in the blue glow

of the wide screen TV

in the history

of your parents’ old house

 

I don’t know what you feel

but like when

you are tender

 

It was nice to hear your voice

 

 

Romy Durrant is a 21 year old writer from Melbourne, Australia. She has been published by Shabby Doll House and Electric Cereal. You can find her at @miseryclit and romywiththehomies.tumblr.com